Artwork
Writing *Cold White Tile Charlotte Klein The Controversy and Innovation of Art History at Wesleyan and Beyond: A Talk with Professor Nadja Aksamija Maya Hayda Pastoral Heroism: A Review of “A Quiet Place� Stephanie Ades
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Cabbage Baby Maya Hayda
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*13; 15; 19 Nadine Ng Krasinski; Pastoral Doodle Olivia Gracey
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7-8, clockwise 9-10
*Digital2 Lily Sperry
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*Forgiving You in Jerusalem Rachel Rosin
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*Untitled6 Emma Cantor
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*Eaten Danielle Krieger
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*Rainbow Emma Cantor
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*Backseat Charlotte Klein
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*Digital4 Lily Sperry
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The Look Stephanie Ades
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*10; 12 Noa Street-Sachs
New Languages Gem McHaffey
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*Untitled 4 Shelli Weiler
Why is Campus Comedy So White? An Pham
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*Found Image Collage Ginger Hollander
The Healing Power of Poop Humor JR Atkinson
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*Untitled3 (Collab w/ Matisse) Charlotte Strange
Exploring God Through Text JR Atkinsonn feat. Noa Rosenberg
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*losing my virginity Megan West
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Staff Founders and Co-Editors Stephanie Ades and JR Atkinson Design Team Stephanie Ades, JR Atkinson, Olivia Gracey, Maya Hayda, and An Pham *Piece originnally submitted to sawcebox 1
Cover
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Dear Reader, Midriff Magazine started over breakfast. JR said, “so I’ve been toying with this idea…..”. The idea was a new publication centered around the college/young adult experience of the aware womxn, which we see as a unique experience that deserves its own space in this absurd world. Soon, we were making a vision board and writing a mission statement, then setting deadlines, having meetings, and performing other feats of logistics. It seems surreal now that this letter is going in a physical magazine, all of our brainstorming coming together. One thing that we were on the same page about from that first breakfast was that we want Midriff to be an art piece in itself, a physical object and summation of work that you can hold in your hands. Midriff is the latest in a long history of womxn-centered publications at Wesleyan. We started at the Olin Special Collections to research our predecessor publications, such as a student magazine from the ‘80s and ‘90s called Iahu. Although there were a couple of stand-out features (like an essay about habitually masturbating to Kant) the pieces we saw from the age of second-wave feminism at Wesleyan were, frankly, very second-wave. Writing or making art about the womxn’s experience today, just as discussing it in a intellectual sense, is a completely different task than it was 20 or 30 years ago. It has completely different needs, and is set in a completely different social and political moment. So, we see Midriff as a continuation of as well as an update to the history of womxn-centered publications at Wesleyan, and hopefully in a larger context. Another publication that helped us out immeasurably is sawcebox, whose head Rachel Rosin graciously shared submissions with us and gave us advice. Along with Rachel and everyone who contributed to sawcebox, we have tons of people to thank. Most importantly, our friends who helped us out in a pinch, even something small like an opinion on a sentence or a page design. Joan Didion, for being both of our inspirations and one of the binding forces of this project. Dave from Paladin Commercial Printers, for fielding endless questions and being a great communicator. Last but definitely not least, the WSA and the Green Fund for granting our dangerously late funding requests and providing the resources to actually produce this project. We are so excited to share our passion project with all of you. We hope you love it as much as we do. Love always,
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February I find out in the kitchen. The electronic blast pulses through my phone, which jolts against the marble counter that it rests upon. I am not told that Philip Seymour Hoffman has died because I am his close friend or relative but because I am among the many millions of people who subscribe to the Times. He is among the individuals so deeply revered by Hollywood that anything short of their full name sounds disrespectful, rings with an inappropriate casualness. The mass alert includes something about death but not yet anything about overdose. There is something about the number 46, a newly-stagnant age that he will never exceed. All three names are included. I call my brother. He is three years my senior and enrolled in the same film school that Hoffman attended. I ask him if he has heard the news (he has) and if he is upset (he is). We talk for a minute or two, throwing words like artistry and tragedy around before hanging up the phone.
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June It begins a few months later. It is summer now, a rainy season. The air is dense with humidity, a stickiness that glues the pages of my mother’s book together when we sit outside and read. On most afternoons, warm rain sends us running for the indoors. On these days, I reread articles about Hoffman, those that mention the syringe found in his left arm, the envelope of heroin nearby his body. I struggle to picture what this final scene looks like, a lonely Sunday, a bathroom floor I visualize as cold white tile for no particular reason. He was still wearing his eyeglasses when they found him; they were resting atop his head. I am many months too-late to this grief game, a stranger whose mourning is expected to have concluded by now. Watching him becomes a desperate attempt to satisfy fascination, as if the sheer intake of footage would give my obsession purpose. I make my way through his filmography, spacing out viewings so as to prolong my inevitable arrival at the end of the list. The loss deepens; I find him dead all over again with each performance, rediscover his body upon white tile. I watch his quiet rage in Mission Impossible III as Davian, an international black market dealer who threatens with careful coldness. I want him to like me, a yearning to be on his side that feels closer to Stockholm syndrome than fandom. I watch him rant in Almost Famous as Lester Bangs, a rock critic with long brown hair who wears a t-shirt that says DETROIT SUCKS, who makes light of what I seemingly cannot, who tells me that the only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool. His death cements these characters into the make-believe, people who will never exist for more than their two-hour runtime. The spell has been broken. I have been duped by theatrics into an illegitimate sadness, left to miss the scruffy blonde man who looked perpetually tired, someone I have never known. “He was just Phil Hoffman then,” my mother’s friend says. She is telling me about college, remembering the same acting program she attended with Hoffman before he left to get sober. She does not share my intrigue and resultantly gives me very little of what I’m after, which is something that might intimate that this dead stranger and I would get along. “I didn’t see much of him,” she shrugs. “He mostly kept to himself. Was pretty quiet.” I admire the laconic, wonder whether I would best avoid saying the wrong thing by saying nothing at all. Hoffman gives a face and a name to the quiet longing I typically reserve for the living, a long-time desire to be desirable. The funeral program distributed at Hoffman’s memorial includes a note from David Bar Katz, one of the two people to find him dead. Like a collapsed star, a teaspoon of you weighed a thousand tons. For the rest of my life I’m going to be looking towards the door, waiting for you to walk in.
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a direction, a focus, and a passion that would carry her through the rest of undergrad and eventually lead her to graduate school, a PhD, and a career. Today, her research focuses particularly on villa architecture, ideology, and Professor Nadja Aksamija is one of those rare people blessed from a young age with the ability to know what she wants to do, and how to do it. Since the age of ten, Aksamija told me, she knew she wanted to be an art historian. This dream was inspired by childhood immersion in the world art. Her grandfather was an architect, and she fondly recalled hours spent watching him work, as well as numerous trips to art museums. In her studies as an undergraduate, “the core was always art history” she said, “and everything else I did plugged into that.” literature during Counter Refor These “other things” ranged from mation, but she also is interested languages like German, French, in late Renaissance landscapes. Pursuing a career in the Italian and Latin, to subjects like Sociology, History, and Religious field of art history isn’t easy. As studies. She began taking Ital- most careers in academia, it reian her freshman year of college, quires not only years of work, but went to Italy in her junior year also a certain amount of luck. Akand fell in love with 16th century samija told me that at a certain Italian Art. The whole experience point “you just have to have faith” was “life-changing”, as she put it: that the ten to fifteen years of travelling with friends by train time and effort put into obtaining throughout Italy, seeing artworks a PhD will pay off. This is particin person, and losing oneself in ularly relevant as academia moves the culture and daily rhythm of towards a model that has less and life. From that point on, she had less tenure positions available,
There is significant potential for a demographic transformation within the field, starting from the ground up
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and rather having adjunct or visiting professor positions which are essentially “underpaid labor.” According to a 2017 report by the National Center for Education Studies, about half of the entire nation’s university faculty works part time. Additionally, a 2015 report at the UC Berkeley Labor Center, 25% of part-time college faculty nation wide are enrolled in public assistance programs. If tenure doesn’t work out, it can be “devastating, and it’s important to keep in mind the reality of that.” Other than simply a lack of available work, there are other aspects of the discipline which need improvement. One of these aspects is diversifying the field of scholars. Luckily, and happily, there is much less of a gender disparity today in the discipline, especially when compared to the 70’s or the 80’s. Aksamija recalled how, when she was in graduate school, change began to happen before her very eyes and the playing field between men and women began to level. When she started, only two professors of art history in the entire department were women, but by the end it was equally distributed. At Wesleyan, the department comprises of eight professors, three men and five women. Additionally, Aksamija was happy to point out that even the classroom
demographic shifted from being a primarily a female-student male-professor environment to a greater balance of men in the classroom with women as professors. However, the remaining frontier is the representation of minorities in the field. These are both trends supported in national data collected by the Humanities Indicator: as of 2015 women have earned 61% of all masters and professional practice degrees in the humanities, and 54% of doctorate degrees. This is a huge leap from the data from 1966, when only 19% of doctorate degrees in the humanities were being earned by women. However, the Humanities Indicator group also examined racial/ethnic distributions of higher education degrees: the data shows that only 14.9% of master’s degrees and 10.5% of doctorate degrees are being earned by underrepresented minorities. Although this is an improvement from 8.2% and 6.4% respectively in 1995, there is still a significant disparity. As noted by Aksamija, this is an issue that is “built into the educational process.” Although institutions like Wesleyan try to hire diverse faculty, there currently is a somewhat homogeneous reserve to choose from, which conceivably should evolve to be more inclusive in the future. The issue of diversification in the field of art history extends even beyond academia. Recently, the Brooklyn Museum in New York appointed Dr. Windmuller-Luna, a white woman, as the curator for African Art. This decision has sparked much controversy and statements from groups like Decolonize This Place characterizing the selection as “tone-deaf.” Although Dr. Windmuller-Luna’s credentials are extremely impressive, with a bachelor’s degree from Yale and subsequent M.A. and PhD degrees from Princeton, as well as curatorial work at museums such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Still one cannot help but feel uncomfortable with her appointment. A 2015 report by the Carnegie Mellon Foundation found that 84% of art museum staff (Curators, Leadership and Educators) were white, while only about 4% were black, a statistic which only emphasizes the lack of representation within the field as a whole. The controversy surrounding the appointment at the Brooklyn Museum should be taken seriously, as it represents a larger issue in the field as a whole. There is significant potential for a demographic transformation within the field, starting from the ground up. Although certain aspects of the field need improvement, at Wesleyan and beyond, art history is valued for its unique lens on the past. There have been some exciting new directions of scholarship which try to take on a more global, inclusive focus on art. For example, for 16th and 17th century Italian art this lies in the uncovering of women artists and patrons. There is also a push for a more global lens to be implemented in analyses, where cross-atlantic, cross-cultural connections are being utilized not just in the context of colonialism, but as a dialogue to uncover new meanings in artwork. New methods of study are being developed which can help with data collection, and ask new questions about many of our shares similarities. These new methods require a more diverse and interdisciplinary skill set in order to uncover many new frontiers for research. Currently, the department at Wesleyan is looking for a Medievalist who has particular skills in technology in order to pursue a greater scope of research which is not so heavily literature-based in the future; it is an attempt to lead to new ideas and a greater sense of connection for all. There’s also no reason to regard the field as boring or dull, as it holds even an entertaining value. I asked Aksamija which artist (dead or alive) she would have dinner with if given the chance. Her answer was Benvenuto Cellini, a 16th century Italian sculptor who wrote his own autobiography and “was a great exaggerator,” and whose life was full of “escapades and drama.” She was quick to state that he wasn’t her favorite artist, as he’s “not the best sculptor, but he’s fun. He’s my favorite character from the 16th century from how he talks about himself.”
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A disclaimer: I did, in the simplest terms, enjoy the movie. This was before I listened to a Q&A, or thought too hard about it. Last Tuesday (4/3) here at good old Wesleyan, the Goldsmith Family Cinema held an advance screening of A Quiet Place (2018, dir. John Krasinski). The screening was followed by a Q&A with a mystery guest(s), which was what originally lured me to the screening on the off chance that the guest was the movie’s star and director John Krasinski. It was not, but the Q&A contributed just as much, if not more, to my feelings and thoughts about the film. The screening experience was an exercise in heroism. For the two producers starring in the post-screening Q&A (silver-haired and tailored Wes alum Brad Fuller, and his scruffy, slightly Byronic counterpart Andrew Form), John Krasinski was the brains, the brawn, and the blood of the film. He starred, directed, and acted as a stand-in for the movie’s monster before the CGI was ready. The real highlight of the screening, however, was when an audience member (a hero in her own right) asked the speakers who they thought the main character of the movie was. Both of them leaned into the microphone instead of just Fuller, the clear alpha, and said that they have thought through this particular question a lot. They then considered that the movie might truly belong to Emily Blunt, but settled their answer on Millicent Simmons, who plays the deaf daughter of Krasinski’s character. Our audience hero, not surprised, then commented on how “John Krasinski got a weird amount of screen time” for the movie to be anyone else’s but his, and mused over how unnatural it was for them to suddenly claim after the fact that the daughter was the hero. “So you liked the movie,” sardonically replied Fuller. I do not mean to undermine Blunt’s role in elevating the film. Her silent performance carries entire sequences and serve as perhaps the film’s most striking highlights. Nor do I mean to undermine the work of Millicent Simmons. Her performance was nuanced and touching. I wished to see more of her. Revered by the speakers as a rather revolutionary concept, Krasinski insisted on hiring a deaf actress to play a deaf part. There is nothing like men acting like the bare minimum is revolutionary. Casting a hearing actor for a deaf part is the equivalent of casting a white actress to play Mulan. Nevertheless, Simmons joins Blunt as the saviors of the film. I have referred to the characters this way (as the father, the mother, the daughter, and the son) because none of their names were mentioned during the film, and if they were, I didn’t catch them. Either way, it was clearly not important to those responsible for the film to give its characters an identity outside of the family unit. My issue here is not with the story’s exploration of a family unit as a society in itself, but rather in the archaic statements it makes about the nuclear family. Ultimately, my main issue with the film is its dissonance about its own being. It oscillates between an actual horror movie that makes frequent use of the jump scare and a story of Krasinski’s handsome idealized heroism as he tries to create a safe and fulfilling life for his family. Here, in his character’s idealization as the 9
male protector, is where the film strays towards misogyny. The primitive attitude towards women that the movie holds is largely based in its images of the mother and the daughter. Krasinski’s wife in the film, played by his actual wife, is the picture of domesticity. She is shown homeschooling while Krasinski is out, presumably hunting. In this scene, Blunt kneels on the floor with the beginning of Sonnet 18 scripted on a board behind her, fully scanned. She is surrounded by her flowing skirt and haloed by her loose burnt-golden hair, resembling nothing less than a Baroque painting of an aristocratic woman distinguished by her learnedness. To top it all off, she is, of course, pregnant. Though the character’s most powerful scene is her birth scene, and the baby’s symbolism as new life and hope is almost too clear, it reinforces the stereotypical image of the patriarch performing all of the manly work while his beautiful wife carries his child, does laundry, and nurtures. And what of her skirt? Why, pray tell, are the two female characters never wearing pants? Surely pants are more practical for a life in the wilderness. No gym teacher in their right mind would let going pantless in
class off without at least a warning, a light finger wag. This air of sexist mystery is present throughout the film, such as when the daughter wants to go out hunting with her father but he refuses, instead taking her terrified younger brother. I do not want to revert to this “the girl wasn’t allowed to go hunting argument”, but as there is no good reason, I must. Is it the skirt? Does the mother say that the daughter needs to stay behind with her to help out with the house rather than go out hunting because she is wearing a skirt? It is true that the movie resolves itself through its stepping up of the female characters’ heroism. These great moments, however, are undermined by the rest of the movie. It is also true that, as the speakers continuously reiterated, the sound engineering was an effective tool for engaging the viewer. The concept, as the speakers also continuously leaned on, was excellent. However, where the speakers claimed that all one really needs for a good horror movie is a concept, I disagree. The concept’s scariness and “wow” factor lasted maybe though the first hour of the movie, but the film’s other story elements were not developed nearly enough to keep the concept in the high position that it should be. Ultimately, the concept is a crutch that allows the movie to leave its other important aspects incomplete, which is worse than simply neglecting them. Perhaps the movie could have alternatively benefitted from playing into its archetypes and taken a step towards an ironic self-awareness. Instead, though, it fails to add the extra layer that it seeks, leaving an air about the film that is disingenuous and laughable.
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Forgiving You in Jerusalem You book my flights on Saturday afternoons. You have your head to your mug and I have my mug to my body. Don’t look at me. We are lovers that live down the hall. You sit and you sift through my resting manicure and dancing childhood and soft sheets and we’re talking, pickle to toe. Let me ask you about Harry’s girlfriend or poke you about my favorite sorbet. This is our radio station and I love to bounce. I know your hair would be curly if it was long and I wonder what you looked like as a baby. Send your mother a picture of us. Do you remember when we were running in and out of my cheeks? I got hit by your truck but only felt the small cars on the highway.
Rachel Rosin
Eaten I have been swallowed By an invisible mouth. It chewed me into pieces And spit me back out. My legs have been cracked My face has been licked My stomach has been poked It makes me feel sick. Now I so easily choke On words when I want to be tasty again Folks ate me, but here I still am.
Danielle Krieger
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The first time I smoke out of a bong, I am in a parked car. I am in Florida, visiting an old friend named Sofia. I also turn out to be visiting her new boyfriend Teddy, who will remain by her side for the entire weekend until they drop me off at the airport. I arrive late on a Friday, in an empty Miami Airport terminal that smells like leather and fast food. Boca Raton is a part of Florida that is almost beautiful. There are seemingly endless stretches of strip-malls. Many of the restaurants are chains and most of the homes are gated, in lavish developments that are under round-clock surveillance. We pull up to one of these gates; Sofia says we’re going to meet some of her friends. Upon our arrival, the attendant asks who we are here to see. He will open the gate only if we provide an acceptable answer. And we do; we are here for Andy, Teddy says. “Andy. That’s the one I told you about,” Sofia says from the front seat. She cranes her neck, meets my eyes. I give her a smile even though I don’t remember what it was that she told me. I am tired from my flight and don’t feel in the mood to say much at all. “He’s into you,” she reminds me. “Ah,” I say. “Right.” I try to stop her train of thought before she can develop it further. “I’m sort of seeing someone at home,” I lie. “Whatever,” Teddy laughs. “Just see where the night takes you.” Sofia nods enthusiastically in agreement. I am young — in only my first year of high school — and I don’t argue. I am excited to be around Sofia and Teddy, who are a few years older than me, and around people who know nothing about me besides my name and the fact that I am only here for the weekend. Sofia doesn’t seem concerned with whether or not I can keep up. And besides, I can. Andy gets in the car with his two other friends. He pulls the bong out of a reusable grocery store bag that looks like something my mother would use instead of plastic bags, in an effort to be sustainable. The bong is a smoking device that I have heard stories about, adventure tales told to me by older, more experienced friends and siblings. Andy looks at me with expectation, as if he has heard that I am ‘into’ him, too. I wonder what Sofia has told him when he squeezes my waist within the first few minutes of meeting me. He is thickset with long, dirty-blonde hair that shines with grease; the oiliness is especially apparent in the area where his forehead meets his hairline. He laughs at my coughs when the smoke from the bong seers my throat. I realize there is no water in the car. Teddy jokes with Andy, tells him he was mean to give me what he 13
calls a “death rip.” My throat continues to burn for the rest of the night, even after we have eaten sushi in the back of a dark restaurant where the waiters do not ask for our ID before serving us alcohol and where Andy continues to grab my waist. The grabs became harsher with each beer he chugs and burps up; he grows more confident each time he reaches for me. Andy’s rigid, calloused hands chafe against my skin and under the new green t-shirt that I have purchased just for this weekend. When we leave the restaurant, he grabs me again from behind, his large jaw rattling up and down with each bellowing laugh. I say nothing. I am disoriented from the bong rips and drunk off of whatever cheap beer I was fed. I tell Andy that I’ll see him at whatever location we’re heading to next, hopping into Teddy’s car before Andy can follow and slide into the empty seat adjacent to mine. Teddy drives, even though he shouldn’t. He drives fast. He speeds on the Florida freeways and I am so overwhelmed by my high and the stoplights that I shut my eyes, extend my hands on either side of me in an effort to hold onto the vehicle that carries me forward. I feel every grit of gravel as the car pulls into a gas station. Sofia gets out; she is staggering. She buys American Spirit cigarettes and smokes them inside the car, with the windows up. The smoke doesn’t seem to bother Teddy, so I decide against asking to open a window. I hold my breath until I no longer can, coughing on the dirty air and the residual sting of the bong. And then we are back at Andy’s house and the bong that began our evening is back in its rightful place, inside Andy’s drawer. I, too, am wishing to hide inside of there. We sit, all four of us, on his creaking living room couch. I go to use the bathroom and return to only Andy, who sits where Sofia and Teddy had been just moments earlier. “They’ll be back soon,” he says, right before he leans in to kiss me. When I don’t kiss him back, he grabs my face, clawing the back of my head towards him with a pinching grip. When he shoves his hands down my jeans, he is angry. He stabs his fingers in a way that makes me cry out in pain. I endure for as long as I can until eventually taking flight to the bathroom, where I try to call Sofia. But she is too busy, presumably having sex, in the next room to answer and I am so cold in this bathroom wearing only a bra, so I return to the living room. It isn’t until twenty minutes later that Sofia finally returns with Teddy. They find us sitting in silence, on opposite ends of the couch. I watch Andy flip through the channels of his television, the blue light of the LED screen pulsating like a strobe against his dissatisfied face.
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There is a look. It’s a look that I’ve been informally studying since probably middle school. It’s a look that’s somewhere between a joke and a conspiracy. It’s the look that guys give each other when a flirting girl has entered their airspace, has stumbled, drunk or not, into their sacred assembly: shoulders squared, beers in hand, bodies creating a semicircle perfect for Girl Reception. In college, and I’m sure after college as well, sex is somewhat of a group activity. That does not mean that sex in college tends toward the orgy side of things, although I won’t assume. It means that friend groups are complicit in its pursuit and share its laurels. A victory for one is a victory for all. Apps like Tinder on campus contribute to the sportiness of it all; matching with the same person is a bonding experience, and swiping is a fun game to pass the time for the whole family. This is not limited to men: my female friend group knows everything about each other’s sex lives, or at least the gist, and the ethos can definitely stray towards that of conquest. That said, I’ve never seen the Look, trademarked for its mocking, outside of the Assembly. The Look is a microcosm of a larger culture of commodifying sex. Guys are taught that they should have as much sex as possible. As well-educated or evolved a man in college can be, I don’t think that this standard ever goes away. A college-age guy can respect women in theory to their heart’s content; still, I’ve seen the best of them share the Look with a buddy, usually when the two or three of them outnumber the women who have entered their Assembly. The Look, in its smugness at the impending conquest, makes a mockery of a woman who has allowed herself to be vulnerable in her desires. The Look is a power trip, just another element in sexual politics contributing to the gray areas that inspire so much discourse and confusion in activism. The biggest difference between the Look and whatever teasing and encouragement that girls give each other (whispered conferences that cover an entire content spectrum from “yas queen” to “share your location and text if you need anything”) is that the Look is sinister. It goes beyond harmless fun between friends and enters the realm of the larger issues in the sex and dating world. I can picture the Look as clearly as I can picture my laptop keyboard or my bedroom, because it starts young. From the first kiss, it’s all about impressing the Boys, proving oneself a Big Man. The Look puts the sacred assembly on top when it injects confusion and insecurity into the hearts of sexually empowered women. It is patterns like the Look that continually put women out of the loop and cultivate a sense that women have less of a voice in sexual situations— the sense that a feeling of discomfort isn’t legitimate. The Look fosters a defensiveness that is partially what makes gray areas so gray. The Look can be transparent as a sparklingly-clean glass window, but for some reason, not nearly as easily breakable. 16
Susan could tell there was a pattern to what the pastor was saying, though she could not recognize it as language. It was closer to breath; the function of his words could be understood very softly just by recognition of movement. At the first sermon she attended, she assumed he was speaking in gibberish and had almost left the commune completely. The member of the congregation they had assigned to help her adjust, a tall twisted woman named Phoebe, had persuaded her to stay. “It’s normal to have suspicion at first,” Phoebe said, “but the fact that you’re conflicted at all means you’re serious about healing. That’s a good thing. Stay a little longer. See if this is for you.” Now she could see the outlines of grammar and order in his words, though she could not yet understand them. “It takes time,” Phoebe told her. Looking at it like it was simply a matter of words and time made it feel manageable. If she just focused long enough she could understand the language. If she just focused long enough… She often remembered Jay before the sermons began in the morning, when the children ran along the wheat fields barefoot and joyous, and the adults huddled together warmly, interacting with one another and holding hands. They are always holding hands. It all reminded her of heartbeats. There appeared to be something incredibly visible that held everything together, something they were trying to protect, but possibly unaware of. Forget the functions. Move on. But that was hard too. Whatever was under the surface reminded her of Jay: his voice, his heartbeat, him taking a deep breath and saying, “I’m going to have to live the rest of my life knowing that you were so caught up in your goddamn illusion that you need to raise me instead of mom that you don’t actually give a shit about me, Sus.” She heard him say this in the wheat fields, in the children, in the rudimentary wooden church standing in the middle of the farm, in the cots they slept on at night, in the heartbeats and in the way Phoebe told her, “You can start out wearing your own clothing. At some point you will want to dress like us.” But she couldn’t stop hearing Jay, couldn’t stop wearing the baggy clothing she had stolen from his room after the funeral. She knew it was worse to the other members of the congregation that she dressed like a man instead of dressing like them, but she didn’t mind when they gave her looks after the sermon. Phoebe had 17
made her kneel in the back to minimize the distraction. The sun beat down on their backs during the sermon, but she didn’t care. She tried to focus on the language. Not hearing what she wanted to hear or didn’t want to hear. “You don’t actually give a shit about me, Sus. You don’t actually give a shit about me at all.” Sometimes she could block out enough of it to hear the words of the pastor, and rest her mind, but after the sermon she could feel the heartbeat again, the underlying frantic beauty. She would follow Phoebe through the crowd of the congregation and try to learn their names, which she never could do. She found the people too friendly and strange. Their eyes bore into her like she needed to be saved; their eyes shifted to her clothing and she knew they thought she needed to be saved. They repeated their names again and again and Susan smiled. She kept smiling. She kept smiling. “I can tell you’re holding on,” Phoebe told her one night. “By now you should at least know their names.” When Jay and Susan were younger, people used to tell them they looked alike. When she was older, she was always told she looked more like their mother. Susan never really believed them, saw it more as something people thought would appease her, like her mother lived on in her features. And Jay’s features. But that too didn’t matter. “You’re beautiful like your mother.” They told her, but it felt disjointed and formed in intention rather than reality. Now I look like Jay, she told herself every morning, tired and hard and steady. He lives on in your features. If she focused hard enough during the sermon, then she didn’t have any features at all, simply lost herself and vowels and pauses. The pastor was a strong, athletic-looking man with bright, helpful eyes and a calming demeanor. The heart. When he came to find her after one of the sermons she had flinched a little bit, at the broken distance she had from him. He didn’t seem to belong to her in the way he did to the other members of the congregation. “I saw you during the sermon,” he said, “And your name was spoken to me.” She kept her eyes on the ground. “Abigail,” he said. “That’s not my name,” Susan whispered, but as Phoebe shot her a look she began to realize it wasn’t a choice. He smiled sensitively, put his hand on her shoulder, and said, “You’re not the same person you were before this. You need not hold onto whatever has broken you in this way, Abigail. You are new and you are healing.” She just stared at him. His blue eyes faded into her. “What did you think of the sermon?” he asked. 18
“I didn’t understand the language,” Susan admitted. He smiled knowingly, “You are letting the past hold you back. You need not think of yourself as a burden anymore. I sense you’re running from something. I hope one day you feel comfortable enough to tell me.” As he walked away to talk to the other members, she heard Jay say, “I’m going to have to live the rest of my life knowing that you were so caught up in your goddamn illusion that you need to raise me instead of mom that you don’t actually give a shit about me, Abigail.” When she was sure Phoebe was asleep, Susan rose and went to the closet where Phoebe had hung the three linen dresses members of the congregation had made for her. She had placed Jay’s clothes in the base of the closet, folded gently and without creases. She wanted to pick them up and feel them, but she didn’t allow herself. She focused on the dresses. She ran her fingers across them, thought about the new language and if she even really wanted to understand, if she could really be Abigail, if she could detach herself from the past. She took a deep breath, went to the suitcase she had brought with her (“that too will have to go when you are ready to give up the world you came from”) and pulled out a needle and a thread. She went back to the dresses, lay the fabric across her lap, and began to sew her name, her real name, into the back of the collar where it would be hidden by her hair. Susan. Susan. Susan. She still wasn’t ready to wear them. Maybe this will help me want to. Should I even want to? And then she paused in her fidgety action. Maybe I’m holding onto the past too much. But she didn’t care. If it makes me feel better then it doesn’t matter. Jay had all kinds of weird mannerisms like that. In the foster homes he would always write his name in his shoes and line them up along the bed. He memorized all of Leaves of Grass. “Walt Whitman understands death,” he would say, “Really understands everything… You’re self-aware when you’re alive, contained and all that shit. In death you’re also self-aware because you’re part of the earth.” The pastor made eye contact with her before the sermon. He lightly pushed through the crowd, grabbed her by the wrist, and pulled her to the side. He put his hand on her cheek, “You can’t let what happened to him hold you back. It’s not your place to feel these kinds of things. If you are to heal you need to let him go. Are you ready to let him go?” Susan nodded heavily, once. “Are you ready to tell me his name?” She shook her head. She couldn’t let the name go. 19
“Are you ready to tell me what happened?” “He killed himself,” she replied quietly, “My brother.” “You can let him go now,” he told her. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the pastor was walking towards the front of the room. Everyone began to take their spots, and Susan gravitated towards Phoebe, her heart racing. How could he know that? She kneeled down beside everyone else shaking a little bit. How could he know that? The pastor opened his mouth and she began to understand. The words fizzled in her ears. You are the chosen ones, he said, You were put here for a reason. Whatever happened to you in the past it doesn’t matter. You were brought here to create heaven. You are helpers and you are whispers. You can understand me for a reason. Those that truly understand will be granted peace. He has promised me all the pain in your memories will be erased. She slid on the white linen dress over her head and stuffed her arms through the holes. On her, it hung unflatteringly, shooting out at the hips slightly and falling to her ankles. It was too large for her, especially with the weight loss. She knew they were watching her when she ate, knew they were giving her extra food. That means they care. Or it means they think I should care. Or both. But it didn’t feel real somehow. Even as she spoke their language. You’re holding onto the past too much. You’re holding onto the past too much. She focused on the heartbeat, on holding together whatever it was that sewed all the members together. She learned all their names. She held their hands. She could hear the heartbeat. “You’re making progress,” Phoebe told her after the morning sermon that day, “I can tell you are really listening. Tell me, where are you from?” “I don’t know.” “Tell me, how old are you?” “I don’t know.” “Tell me, where is your family?” “I don’t know.” She replayed it over and over again that night. She smiled at herself in the mirror, and traced her features with her fingers to remind her they were hers. You were holding on and now you aren’t. Something was itching the back of her neck. She reached back and felt the collar. Something grooved. She couldn’t place the texture, and found herself pulling the dress off to look at it. She rubbed the texture between her fingers. She knew something was written there, but the shapes were confusing and yet familiar. After a few minutes she could barely determine how to pronounce it. “Susan,” she said, but it didn’t make an impression.
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As the sky was pouring down on us, my friends and I sought shelter in one of our cars. Upon getting in the car, the unpacking began almost immediately: the event that we had all just witnessed begs to be discussed. Who is to speak up first here? Which one of us is brave enough to cast the first stone? Who can speak up here? I, myself, certainly didn’t feel equipped with my minimal experience. You will excuse my overly dramatic tone, but the act of sitting inside a parked vehicle in the pouring rain almost requires it, don’t you think? Nonetheless, “analyzing” a Gag Reflex show didn’t require nearly as film noir a setting as the one we had found ourselves in. The show was lighthearted, funny, and warm. On our way home, we talked about what went well, what we liked, who we liked. It’s discussion we are accustomed to, being in the same improv group; for after every one of our performance, we would dissect the show bit by bit. However, what we talked about that evening after Gag’s show invoked deeper introspection on my part: the group was made up entirely of white students. They all have a nice, easy rapport with each other, it seemed, which is essential in an improv comedy group. This begs the question: how would the group dynamic change if they weren’t all white? When the group’s diversity, or lack thereof, was brought up in our car discussion, I pointed out that it’s unfair to criticize Gag for their representation, because I am the only person of color in my improv group. This seems to be a pattern across the board, and not just across the improv board either. Nay, the trend continues across the stand-up and the sketch comedy board. I also was one of the only two non-white performers at last semester’s Queer Comedy Show, which has been a space known for its openness and inclusivity. Why is comedy at Wesleyan dominated by white students? In order to inspect this effectively, we must frame the question differently: Why is there a shortage of students of color in the Wesleyan comedy scene? I would like to preface this by relieving the groups themselves of blame. There is no deliberate filtration of us on their part; I say this because when I myself recently hosted auditions with my group, there weren’t that many students of color who auditioned to begin with. I also remember, when I myself had auditioned, being one of the few—if not the only—colored person in auditions. The root of the problem does not lie in who the respective groups let into their posse of jesters, but in who decides to show up for consideration in the first place. To further make sense of this, we must examine the differences between white students’ upbringings and their peers of colors’, that factor into the disproportional representation in comedy at large. I will only draw from personal experiences that I have as an immigrant, with immigrant parents, combined with a strong sense of religious identity. I came to the U.S. when I was nine, not speaking a lick of English, accompanied by strong-willed parents who had uprooted their whole lives in Vietnam to come here. One thing that my parents made sure they instilled in me was hard work. They both work manually intensive jobs to support me and my brother, and in return, following an unwritten contract, we would work as intensively in school. Naturally, with this driven lifestyle, everything was purposeful; time was spent with an end goal in mind. The language itself had purpose; when you’re working ten to twelve hours a day, scrubbing away at floors, you say things with intention. You can’t afford futile words. I am by no means saying that immigrant parents don’t have a sense of humor; in fact, it’s at times the only thing that keeps their heads above the tide. But to me, this humor is different than that which my white peers may think of as “jokes”. Like I said, this humor is tailored by and for people like my parents; humor that contains an undertone of the hardships of everyday life, humor about the grittiness of human nature, and it’s more concrete than it is conceptual. For white families, they largely have the privilege of not having to worry about basic survival needs, not to the degree that immigrant families like mine do. Consider these two separate scenarios: my parents never get to see each other during the week, because one leaves for work as the other comes home; we rarely 21
have dinner as a family; when we do, one thing is always discussed: how I’m doing in school; I grow up in a culture that is foreign to them. In contrast, my white friend has dinner with her family almost everyday; the parents’ jobs are less strenuous; they have more time and energy to hear her thoughts, no matter how trivial; she is under less pressure to succeed, because her parents’ livelihood doesn’t depend on her; she is more encouraged, both emotionally and financially, to seek out more frivolous hobbies, one of which (you guessed it) is comedy. A lot of white families have an ongoing rapport with each other, something that immigrant families of color lose to the strain of cultural differences between parent and child. An example of this is the phenomena known as “The Dad Joke”. We all know what I’m referring to: endearingly terrible jokes made by our fathers, who, with their hands in their tan cargo shorts, are simply trying to brighten the day. This fosters a joking relationship with their children, where nicknames would be given, and often it’s most comedians’ first exposure to the act of making people laugh as a performance. This isn’t a strictly white phenomenon, dads of color (DoC’s?) have their own versions of this too. However, the relationship is a little different. For parents of color, especially immigrant parents, there arises a certain tension in their connection to their children, though not neces-
sarily a negative one. It’s more of an expectation: an expectation of obedience, of success, of submission. This tension is what drives us to do well in school, to succeed in life, and to make the sacrifices our parents had made worth something. Since humor is escapism, it would come across as dismissive and unseriousness to our parents, who understand that theymust work a lot harder than their white counterparts to be “equal”. Therein lies the problem. There aren’t as many comedi-
[Some people of color] shy away from something as subjective as comedy, because they know that like most things, they’d have to be extraordinary at it in order to compete with white mediocrity.
ans of color, because a lot of us were brought up in such an environment. There’s a running joke shared by people of color that white kids can say whatever they want to their parents without consequences. It’s based in the liberty that white children enjoy, which lets them discuss things with their parents, speak their minds to them, unburdened by all the expectations that chil-
F dren of color carry on their backs as a result of being labeled “other”. White people have a natural sense of belonging in places; they navigate the world with more ease, which is the confidence essential to standing up in front of a crowd with the sole purpose of making them laugh. Students of color consciously and unconsciously feel that they do not have the same luxury; therefore, in order to be taken just as seriously, they know the work they put out into the world has to pack a punch. This makes them shy away from something as subjective as comedy, because they know that like most things, they’d have to be extraordinary at it in order to compete with white mediocrity. Growing up in a goal-centric environment like that, most students of color observe their parents making jokes not for the sake of “being funny”, but in order to relieve. “Comedian” suggests individuality, autonomy, being funny as an art. This is different from the functional, specific humor that immigrant kids are exposed to by their parents. In order to put yourself out there as a “comedian”, to audition for an improv group, to sign up for a stand-up show, you must first own your functional joke-making as a performance. You are an artisan and this is your craft. Humor is not viewed as such in communities like mine. To us, humor is simply another way to survive.
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Like a lot of only children, I spent most of my childhood surrounded by adults. I was pretty good at it too; I could listen, observe, and not get fussy. Behavior that makes my parents recall me as an “easy kid”. Whether these traits were inherent in me or evolved from suffering through countless dinner parties is hard to say. I do know that it earned me tons of praise: my parents, their friends, and teachers bragged about my lack of kid nonsense (coloring on the walls, flushing odd objects down the toilet, whining about being bored). I felt valued for my unwavering seriousness, and their praise incentivized my “30-year-old trapped in a 10-year-old’s body” identity. This “grownupedness” perpetuated a refusal to participate in what I saw as “superfluous humor”. Poop jokes were far too base to be enjoyed. I couldn’t laugh at Ed Edd and Eddy and maintain the persona I had cultivated. Adult humor was funny. I took pride in “getting it”, getting the movies that my parents watched, the jokes their friends made about wine and marriage. I saw myself as a grown up and laughed at grown up stuff. Early childhood seriousness morphed into pre-teen anxiety. My seventh and eighth grade years were the apex of feeling emotionally out-of-place. The positive feedback loop of feeling “different”, therefore unable to relate to my peers, therefore feeling left out, became a self-conscious desire for a carefree tweendom. My best friend coined this phenomenon “becoming a person too early”. I started taking classes at The Second City in the summer between sixth and seventh grade. Second
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City is a comedy institution in Chicago, housing everything from prestigious performance groups to classes for elementary-age children. I took their two-week sketch and improv comedy camp in the summer where SNL-obsessed kids and kids whose parents wanted them out of their hair between the hours of 9:00 and 2:30 learned the basics of comedy. Our comedy pro teachers walked us through the foundations of improvisation: character work, storytelling, and of course, “yes, and.” At the start of the camp, I still held onto my cultivated adulthood, and was wary to ever let myself get too goofy. It wasn’t a conscious choice as it was a symptom of fear. If I acted childish, I would lose the identity that I’ve been praised for all my life.
ular boys in our grade, and let go. I had a skill that I could tap into and it made me incredibly happy. High school came, and I knew that I already had the tools for happiness inside me and that it was just a matter of finding space to into them. It wasn’t immediate, but I eventually knew I had found my true group of friends when the funniness flowed. Those friends helped my shake almost the rest of that childhood stoicism. My middle school self would have been amazed at how hard we could laugh together. Getting older and finding comedy made me able to not take the world so seriously. I learned being silly isn’t a bad thing. It can actually help make things better. And it’s fun as hell.
That said, comedy can be a double-edged sword when it comes to The class was pivotal, though, in coping with anxiety. I definitely exposing me to something that I reaped some of its benefits, but was good at besides school. I took developed some unhealthy habits to improv immediately and by the in the process. While comedy can end, I felt confident in my capacity be incredibly healing, it can also to be a funny person. A label that be a defense mechanism, easily nobody had assigned to me before. activated in order to laugh about I returned every summer for the something rather than face it head next four years. Each time I came on. It’s still vital to be serious and back, I faced the class with a new vulnerable sometimes, and striknotch on my comedy belt, growing ing that balance is still a learning in comfort and willingness to take process for me. risks. Now, though, my friends and I At the end of eighth grade, I faced can volley poop jokes back and the future of moving to a different forth until the cows come home, school for high school, far away and I’ll laugh. That laugh releases from the people that made me my 10-year-old self’s fear of not feel left out. This anticipated shift being taken seriously. The philoshelped set some of my anxiety into ophy that I shouldn’t say anything perspective. The reputation that I unless what I say is eloquent, had cultivated over the years didn’t smart, serious, adult-y. seem to matter anymore. I had an “oh, duh” moment where I figured It is clear to me now that anxiety out that It was much more fun can dampen one’s true personalto lighten up. As the seriousness ity. In my life now, I can check slipped away, I became aware that in with myself, note when that I was making people laugh. I no anxiety is coming back, and notice longer sat at in the front of Ms. when I’m not comfortable in my Lowry’s humanities class, anxown skin. I can tell because I’m iously tuning out my classmates’ not being funny. middle school banter. I sat at the back, did impressions of the pop-
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NR:
ya like beyond all the rituals and stuff and more about like personal things and “contracts” etc
JA: later
i just freakin hope people get that sooner than
JA: i feel like a lot of senior year is fulfilling like NR: freshman goals that you forgot you wanted NR:
i mean i goddamn hope
JA: its like reminding u how silly you used to be // giving closure to it NR: it gave me hope that I’m being silly still and that ill have closure for those silly things and the not so silly things too JA:
yUp
NR:
big mood
JA:
theres a goddam reason for everything
NR:
i understand why deism is a thing god the clockmaker gahdamn
JA: my mom low-key dropped that the reason my dad/grandmother are unhappy drifters in love is because they are godless people and i kind of believed her NR:
i mean savage but also not totally wrong i think like not necessarily god god but like something governing JA: right, like knowing that you are beyond just your own life NR:
yep i mean that even applies to people we know
JA:
!!!
NR: maybe we just know it cause we went to/reject religious school JA:
i really do think that has a lot to do with it we owe something somewhere
NR:
exactly but not like in a specific religious way like someone like henry who accepts most of it
JA: right like you gotta transcend the obligation part and figure out what it actually means for ur place in the world 27
same here i think some will most will it’s just a matter of like what it’ll take
JA:
truth because I’m lowkey still saving myself for Henry in some twisted way for when he’s a fully formed person like never left the back of my mind I’m sure u can relate first love, babeeey NR: early JA:
i ABSOLUTELY relate thats the problem with becoming a person !!! but like i will wait as long as i have to no rush
NR:
me too not even to interact because we gotta all keep moving in the meantime otherwise ya never know how long you’ll wait but at least to see we hope to experience it but at least to see it JA: right- knowing that it’s always gonna be there is enough whether that comes when I’m 18 or 80 NR:
just gotta live in the back of the mind also the front a little it ebbs and flows
JA: yep, and other people will teach us other things about ourselves/themselves and we get a little closer NR:
exactly to like whatever the endgame is and it might not be what you think
JA:
full fuckin circle i think I’m healed now ima go quit college and make wine in the mountains NR:
thats like the cleanest anything could ever be
JR Atkinson feat. Noa Rosenberg
losing my virginity where I’m from saturdays are for moving the pile of logs from one side of the house to the other side of the house and sundays are for staring at geraniums and wondering if you will be able to revive them or if it would just be easier to throw them away and forget about it until next season but one saturday i took a train to roosevelt island to have sex with a boy I had never met “I’m a Russian Jew,” he said. after he came he offered me some lettuce from the fridge and said sorry he didn’t have something better to eat he swiped me into the subway station and waved goodbye i cried the whole way down the f line before I went into penn station i bought a shirt from h&m that showed off my midriff but I never wore it Megan West
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